Election-y type gushing, and "Love . . . In All Its Cruelty" (1/1)
ETA, the Third: Gunn/Andrew!!!!! How did I forget this? And that electricalgwen is made of awesomefunshiny?
I said it before, and I'll say it again: I have cancer of the smart.
But her shinyness will inspire me--I hope--to Gunn/Andrew-shaped feats of shinyness of my own.
And . . . President Obama. Jeebus, it sounds so sci-fi . . . basically like something that wouldn't happen till waaaaaaay in the future, and probably not in America.
I'm so filled with happy, I can't even deal. Read the Gunn/Andrew, and if you're not won over, you've got a heart of stone. Stone!
ETA, the second: I honestly never thought I'd live to see this day. On a very calm, rational level, I'm relieved there won't be another four years of greedy, stupid, Bible-thumping fuckups running my country, but on another level . . . I feel so fucking proud of my country, and more fully a part of it than I ever have before. America really is the land of opportunity. The streets are paved with gold, and for the first time in my life I believe in my country fully, and unswervingly. She's not perfect, but she's once more reaching for the ideal, instead of wallowing in the muck :)
ETA, the first: The BBCAmerica dude, Matt Frey, keeps calling it, but I'm so afraid to jinx it by believing him, or getting my joy on . . . okay, the electoral colleges are toted up: Obama--273, McCain--141. Is this it? Is it over? I need to be pinched. Or spanked. Or kissed soundly . . . fuck, I need a drink.
I got antsy, waiting for the outcome. Sue me. Or concrit me. It's all good :)
Love . . . In All Its Cruelty
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: AtS
Pairing: Spike/Connor
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 500
Notes: Set Post-NFA by six months, part of the Convergence-verse.
Summary: Written for the slashthedrabble prompt “haunted”.
There's something about you. . . .
Something fragile, too oft' betrayed, yet . . . innocent. This tender sensibility shines from the very core of you--haunts my dreams, my waking hours. Until I am transformed into a simulacrum of everything I once was. Something hollow, and brittle--made real only in the eyes of a frightened monster-boy.
Is this love?
Yes, I have known love--tormented, one-sided, hopeless love. I have been as one obsessed: eating, breathing, living for a curve of cheek, a flash of knowing eyes--or the coy, solemn bow of exquisite lips . . . oh, I have been besotted by all these things in turn, in my time, to my lament.
However imperfect my memory, I recall what it is to be lost to the perdition of infatuation: a chasm so deep and perfect, it knows no peace in death, and no death but utter dissolution.
I recall . . . but am I yet capable of this love? Have I the potential for affection deeper and fuller than mere . . . contentment? A contentment, admittedly, to be yours alone, wheresoever thou goest?
Is this quiet, steady trifle human love, then, and I've simply forgotten the taste of it?
I turn over in your arms. Brush fine dark hair away from your troubled brow and wish, selfishly, that your eyes would open. How they brighten whenever you gaze upon me! A pure blue, fathomless and deep as the gulf between galaxies. Calm, in a way I cannot envy, only admire. I wish . . . oh, I wish you would waken--look at me. Tell me you love me, that I might say it back, and saying it . . . make it real. . . .
Half my wish is granted--you blink and bolt upright to search every shadow, long muscles strung tight across dense bones, fists clenched hard enough that I take them--attempt to pry them apart before they issue blood. "Where am I?"
Wide-eyed and anxious, chest filling like a bellows, you don't seem aware that you've spoken, but I answer anyway: Here, love, and in our bed, love.
With me, love.
On Earth, love, and you slump forward, going limp when my arms gather you in.
"Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there," you hitch breathlessly, pressing your damp, feverish face into my neck. You clutch at me, as if my arms are the only safe haven you've ever known, and I would give you the world, if I could. “All I want is to stay here. With you.”
"Hush, pet," I tell you, stroking your hair and kissing your face. Tasting salt and despair in the brief hiatus before your lips find mine, all of you quaking with desperation, and some great fervor I recall . . . but cannot share.
This breast is a cold, capacious chamber for a heart too limited and empty to be worthy of yours.
Love, I've called you--during moments of passion, of domesticity. During the lees of your nightmares--and cursed myself for a coward, and a liar every time.
I said it before, and I'll say it again: I have cancer of the smart.
But her shinyness will inspire me--I hope--to Gunn/Andrew-shaped feats of shinyness of my own.
And . . . President Obama. Jeebus, it sounds so sci-fi . . . basically like something that wouldn't happen till waaaaaaay in the future, and probably not in America.
I'm so filled with happy, I can't even deal. Read the Gunn/Andrew, and if you're not won over, you've got a heart of stone. Stone!
ETA, the second: I honestly never thought I'd live to see this day. On a very calm, rational level, I'm relieved there won't be another four years of greedy, stupid, Bible-thumping fuckups running my country, but on another level . . . I feel so fucking proud of my country, and more fully a part of it than I ever have before. America really is the land of opportunity. The streets are paved with gold, and for the first time in my life I believe in my country fully, and unswervingly. She's not perfect, but she's once more reaching for the ideal, instead of wallowing in the muck :)
ETA, the first: The BBCAmerica dude, Matt Frey, keeps calling it, but I'm so afraid to jinx it by believing him, or getting my joy on . . . okay, the electoral colleges are toted up: Obama--273, McCain--141. Is this it? Is it over? I need to be pinched. Or spanked. Or kissed soundly . . . fuck, I need a drink.
I got antsy, waiting for the outcome. Sue me. Or concrit me. It's all good :)
Love . . . In All Its Cruelty
Author: _beetle_
Fandom: AtS
Pairing: Spike/Connor
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 500
Notes: Set Post-NFA by six months, part of the Convergence-verse.
Summary: Written for the slashthedrabble prompt “haunted”.
There's something about you. . . .
Something fragile, too oft' betrayed, yet . . . innocent. This tender sensibility shines from the very core of you--haunts my dreams, my waking hours. Until I am transformed into a simulacrum of everything I once was. Something hollow, and brittle--made real only in the eyes of a frightened monster-boy.
Is this love?
Yes, I have known love--tormented, one-sided, hopeless love. I have been as one obsessed: eating, breathing, living for a curve of cheek, a flash of knowing eyes--or the coy, solemn bow of exquisite lips . . . oh, I have been besotted by all these things in turn, in my time, to my lament.
However imperfect my memory, I recall what it is to be lost to the perdition of infatuation: a chasm so deep and perfect, it knows no peace in death, and no death but utter dissolution.
I recall . . . but am I yet capable of this love? Have I the potential for affection deeper and fuller than mere . . . contentment? A contentment, admittedly, to be yours alone, wheresoever thou goest?
Is this quiet, steady trifle human love, then, and I've simply forgotten the taste of it?
I turn over in your arms. Brush fine dark hair away from your troubled brow and wish, selfishly, that your eyes would open. How they brighten whenever you gaze upon me! A pure blue, fathomless and deep as the gulf between galaxies. Calm, in a way I cannot envy, only admire. I wish . . . oh, I wish you would waken--look at me. Tell me you love me, that I might say it back, and saying it . . . make it real. . . .
Half my wish is granted--you blink and bolt upright to search every shadow, long muscles strung tight across dense bones, fists clenched hard enough that I take them--attempt to pry them apart before they issue blood. "Where am I?"
Wide-eyed and anxious, chest filling like a bellows, you don't seem aware that you've spoken, but I answer anyway: Here, love, and in our bed, love.
With me, love.
On Earth, love, and you slump forward, going limp when my arms gather you in.
"Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there," you hitch breathlessly, pressing your damp, feverish face into my neck. You clutch at me, as if my arms are the only safe haven you've ever known, and I would give you the world, if I could. “All I want is to stay here. With you.”
"Hush, pet," I tell you, stroking your hair and kissing your face. Tasting salt and despair in the brief hiatus before your lips find mine, all of you quaking with desperation, and some great fervor I recall . . . but cannot share.
This breast is a cold, capacious chamber for a heart too limited and empty to be worthy of yours.
Love, I've called you--during moments of passion, of domesticity. During the lees of your nightmares--and cursed myself for a coward, and a liar every time.